


Cracking the Code

by CaitlinFairchild



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Marital Relations, Married Life, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:13:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26141662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitlinFairchild/pseuds/CaitlinFairchild
Summary: They’re sure of each other, now. They’re settled. And as far as Sherlock is concerned, settled isn’t the least bit boring or stifling or constraining.Settled is marvellous. Settled isfreeing.Settled means sometimes you make romantic love by candlelight, murmuring hushed words of endless devotion solely because you want to, because the moment feels right and good.And sometimes, settled means you fuck on the sofa on a Saturday afternoon, straightforward and uncomplicated, no deep desperate romance necessary, just because fucking is fun.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 65
Kudos: 397





	Cracking the Code

**Author's Note:**

> One hundred percent pure marshmallow fluff domestic wish fulfillment with some porn thrown in. 
> 
> Written out of total selfishness, because I desperately need _someone_ to be happy. Shared because I don't think I'm the only one who feels that way right now.  
> 
> 
> Follow me on Twitter at @CaitlinFandom, on tumblr at caitlinfairchildfics, or send me a message at Caitlinfairchild1976@gmail.com
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, commenting, and keeping the fandom alive!

Lestrade unexpectedly arrives at 221b to ask Sherlock for help with the Cubitt double murder case.

“Hilton Cubitt and his wife Elsie were found dead,” he explains, hovering over Sherlock’s supine and disinterested form on the sofa. “Single gunshot wounds to their heads at close range, no powder burns on either of them to suggest murder or suicide. There was no sign of a break in and we have no obvious leads, save for these.” He holds up a handful of photo printouts. “A series of strange pictographs, dancing men scrawled in chalk on the brick wall of their garden. A search of their house turned up a shoebox in Elsie’s bureau, filled with notes written in the same manner. Clearly a code of some sort.”

Sherlock doesn’t even bother to look up as Lestrade speaks. It would never do, after all, to give him what he wanted on the first request.

“Simple substitution cipher,” he says dismissively from his sprawled position on the sofa. “Primary school stuff. Not even your analysts are that hopelessly incompetent.”

“That’s what we thought as well.” Lestrade replies, ignoring the jibe. “But a simple frequency analysis algorithm is returning gibberish. Our guys can crack it, but it’s clearly going to take time. I merely came over here in the interest of expediency. I’d thought maybe you could break it quicker than the Yard. But clearly you’re not interested, so I’ll just --”

Lestrade makes an elaborate, near-pantomimed show of returning the photographs to their manila envelope. 

Of course the DI is, as ever, more intelligent than he appears, and knows that setting the hook with the prospect of showing up the resident Yard techs is a bait Sherlock is constitutionally incapable of resisting. 

Damn him.

Sherlock hears John’s soft, amused snort from the kitchen. Damn John for knowing him so well, too. For that matter, damn himself for being so predictable.

“I didn’t say that,” Sherlock says, hurriedly hauling himself upright, snatching the printouts from Lestrade’s outstretched hand. “I’ll have it solved for you in two hours.”

“Text me,” Lestrade says before turning and leaving without another word, clearly anxious to get back to work on the case.

***

Sherlock’s initial estimate has proven to be frustratingly over-optimistic.

“Two hours, hm?” John asks ninety-seven minutes later, carefully neutral in tone.

“Shut up,” Sherlock replies. “Perhaps three. Four at the very most.”

Four hours become fourteen, as the cipher proves infuriatingly resistant to Sherlock’s efforts. John retires sometime after midnight.

Sherlock swears and mutters and paces the rest of the night away, dipping more than once into the toe of the Persian slipper for a stale cigarette now that John is safely asleep.

Like clockwork, John rises at seven, finding Sherlock still immersed in his task.

“Good morning, my love,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head. “Tea?”

Sherlock considers. The Dancing Men code, as John has named it, is proving far more complex than Sherlock had initially estimated; however, he is making progress, frustratingly slow as it is, which means food is out but beverages are acceptable. 

“Yes, please,” he replies

“We’re still being polite, I see,” John says. “Doing well, then?”

Sherlock grunts and waves him off, limited supply of pleasantries already exhausted.

“Okay, not that polite,” John chuckles, amusement winning out over irritation as he heads for the kitchen.

Time passes. The clock hands move leisurely towards afternoon. 

The kitchen is tidied, John is freshly showered and shaved, and is currently curled up in the corner of the sofa with his tea, halfheartedly reading his latest Jefferson Bass crime novel whilst silently keeping Sherlock company.

The flat is quiet. 

Sherlock is a bit surprised to discover the quiet feels like the _good_ kind, rather than the boring kind.

This is the reason Sherlock is partial to cryptography. He likes this zone, where he’s working, challenged, thoroughly absorbed and focused but not stressed out or frustrated or angry at himself, with John nearby, ready to spring into action and offer assistance if needed.

If Sherlock was the sort of person to have hobbies, he suspects this kind of engagement would be what having an engrossing hobby would feel like. 

Sherlock knows John quite likes this kind of work as well. Cracking codes doesn’t involve fire or bullets or foul-smelling homebrew experiments in the kitchen or any of the multitudinous bad ideas that will cause Mrs Hudson to either shout at them, or cry, if not both. Sherlock knows that as far as John is concerned, cryptography is the ideal sort of case for everyone staying in and keeping out of trouble and having a nice, low-stress couple of days.

It’s honestly all quite satisfying.

And as so often happens, it’s in this moment of abstract meandering, when Sherlock takes a mental half step away from the problem at hand, that his subconscious seizes upon the missing piece that brings the entire puzzle into sharp focus.

He squints at the pictographs, mentally rearranging and substituting, sensing the feeling of awareness struggling to reach the surface of his mind.

“Digraphs!” Sherlock exclaims as understanding breaks over him.

John looks up in mild surprise. 

Sherlock spins his desk chair around in triumph. “It’s not just a split-alphabet flip,” he explains, “it’s a triple flip. Four phonetic digraphs have been added to make a group of thirty symbols rather than twenty-six, then the thirty are split into three groups of ten, plus an indicator signal -- the man holding the three-striped flag in his left hand, over his head -- for indicating the sequential progress of shifting the split to the next set of symbols.” He nods in impressed approval. “For amateur work, it’s quite brilliant.”

“But you’re more brilliant.” John murmurs approvingly. “Clever man. Well done.”

As ever, John’s approval stokes Sherlock’s happiness, multiplies by an order of magnitude the fizzy rush that bubbles in his brain when he solves a challenging puzzle. Sherlock chuckles with open delight as he flips the battered notebook in front of him to a clean page, picks up a pen and begins to transcribe the messages, now clear as day.

“Text Lestrade,” Sherlock says as he tears out pages. He rises and thrusts the sheets towards John. Suddenly aware of being thirsty, he turns on his heel, returning to his desk. He picks up his forgotten mug, swallows the last dregs of cold sweet tea. “Send him the translations,” he tells John over the rim of the mug. Tell him he wants a man named Abraham. Ex-boyfriend of Elsie’s. American. Left-handed.”

“Yes, dear,” John replies, arch but amused. He picks up his phone, takes pictures of the notebook sheets one by one, and sends the information to Lestrade.

Sherlock rises onto his tiptoes and stretches his arms above his head as he twists his neck from side to side. His back cracks pleasantly, vertebrae shifting and settling after a long night in an uncomfortable chair.

“How are you feeling?” John asks. “You didn’t sleep at all. Are you tired?’

“Not even a little,” Sherlock says, bouncing a little on his toes. He’s happy and content, feeling comfortable in his skin, thoroughly enjoying this moment of modest triumph. “I feel…”

He feels like he wants to run through the streets of London as fast as he can. He feels like he wants to cliff-dive from five hundred feet into a pool of warm blue Caribbean water. He feels like --

Sherlock stops, considers. He definitely wants something, something specific, something simmering just under his skin. What is it? What does he want?

He looks over at John, sees pride and amusement and affection in his dark blue eyes. John shifts his posture, settles back into the sofa, and something changes in his expression as he regards Sherlock in a frank, overt manner that still makes Sherlock feel a little shivery and lightheaded, even after all these years.

_Of course._

As always, John knows exactly what Sherlock wants, even before Sherlock himself does.

Solving a cipher hits the perfect reward spot in Sherlock’s brain. It’s a lovely intersection of challenge, logic, and success, with moderate stakes that don’t require massive exertion or costly emotional involvement, and it gives Sherlock the dopamine and norepinephrine reward he so craves at a minimal physical and emotional cost.

He’s brimming with good feelings, and he wants to keep on feeling this way.

There's a truth here about Sherlock, something no one save John has ever understood: in the old times, this moment right _here_ was the danger zone. He wasn’t in danger when he was angry or upset, but rather, when he was _happy_.

The danger zone, back then, was in the liminal space after solving a challenge, when Sherlock was full of good feelings -- but was then inevitably confronted with the cruel, crushing reality of an empty room, an empty _life_ on the other side of the natural high. 

And now, things are different.

Oh, how they are different. 

Sherlock suddenly knows exactly what he wants, and what he wants is right in front of him.

His head swims just a bit, the blood rushing to southern regions as the familiar, insistent heat makes itself known, beginning to build between his legs, making his cock swell and thicken against the flannel of his pyjama bottoms.

“John,” is all he says, his voice deep and rough with intent. He takes a half-step towards his spouse. 

John tilts his head and studies Sherlock carefully. The look in his eyes is, somehow, simultaneously both loving and filthy with unspoken intent. He smiles.

“Knew you’d get there,” John says, low and warm.

“You’ve been waiting for me,” Sherlock replies, suitably impressed at John’s own considerable deduction skills.

“‘Course I have,” John says. “I know how you operate. Out here or in the bedroom?”

Sherlock already knows just how he wants this to proceed. 

“Out here,” he says.

“Okay,” John says. “Brilliant. But first you need to make time with a shower, a toothbrush, and a glass of water.” 

Sherlock doesn’t want to do any of those things. What he wants to do is tear off his clothes and jump directly on top of his husband, now, immediately.

“Yeah, I know,” John says, reading the intentions clearly telegraphed in Sherlock’s expression, his posture. “But you’re dehydrated and kind of gamy, and I know you had a cigarette or two before I got up.”

“Sometimes you like all that,” Sherlock points out.

“Sometimes I do, but not today. We’re not under any kind of pressure here, we have all afternoon and nowhere to go. Take five minutes. We’ll both have a better time.” John makes a little shooing motion. “Go on, then. I’ll be right here when you get back.”

“Promise?” Sherlock says. He means it in a teasing fashion, but it doesn’t come out teasing at all. It comes out low and intent, with a neediness that would have embarrassed him thoroughly in another lifetime. 

It doesn’t, anymore.

John looks him up and down, the look in his eyes unmistakable. His tongue darts out unconsciously to moisten dry lips, an unconscious gesture that hits Sherlock squarely in his reptilian brain, makes him want to do terrible, wonderful things to the man in front of him.

“I promise,” he murmurs with a small, fond smile. 

Sherlock nods. “Five minutes,” he agrees, before turning and scurrying off to get clean and hydrated as quickly as possible.

“Lock the front door,” John calls out after him.

Sherlock does.

***

Freshly showered and mouth rendered minty fresh, Sherlock emerges from the ensuite in his blue silk dressing gown. 

He takes a quick detour to the kitchen, fetching a tumbler from the pile in the sink and rinsing it out, then filling it and drinking the entire glass of water in one go before refilling. He carries the water glass into the lounge.

John has, of course, kept his promise. He is still seated at the end of the sofa, eyes directed at the open book in his lap. Sherlock can tell, even from this distance, he’s not really reading it.

He crosses the room, holds the glass out to John wordlessly.

John looks up at Sherlock with a small smile.

“Thank you,” he says, accepting the glass. He takes several gulps before putting the glass aside on the side table.

“Now,” he says, reaching out and taking Sherlock’s left hand in his right. “Back to our scheduled programme.” John brushes his lips across the back of his knuckles. “What can I do for you, my love?”

Sherlock knows exactly what John can do for him. “Budge over a little,” he says.

John obliges, sliding a few inches away from the arm of the sofa. Sherlock doesn’t let go of John’s hand as he climbs into his lap, bare bony knees slotting easily onto each side of John’s thighs. He curls the fingers of his right hand around the back of John’s neck and grinds down lewdly into his lap, without preamble. John’s cock is already waiting for him, hard and ready under the fabric of his jeans.

John grins up at him. 

“Jesus,” he purrs. “Cracking codes really does get you horny.”

“It really does,” Sherlock says, bending down to kiss him hard, slipping his tongue boldly into his husband’s mouth. John groans a little into his mouth, his free hand slipping under the blue silk to grip his bare hip.

They thrust against each other for several long lovely minutes, enjoying themselves. John’s warm hands roam boldly over Sherlock’s bare body, the feel of his roughened fingertips welcome and familiar as they kiss. John breaks away, panting a little.

“Tell me what you want,” John says.

“I want to ride you,” Sherlock says, savoring the boldness of his words, how easily he is able to tell John exactly what he needs.

John’s eyes sparkle.

“Oh yeah?” John says. “You want to sit on my cock?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock says. 

“Tell me,” John says, his eyes darkening.

“I want to sit on your cock,” Sherlock tells him. “I want to fuck myself on your cock and then I’m gonna come all over your chest.”

John gasps, just a little, a sharp intake of breath as he bites at the juncture of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder. 

“Oh, my filthy man,” he breathes into his shoulder, shaking his head in mock disapproval as his strong hands pull his hips down hard against his cock. “Such a dirty mouth on you. I love it.”

Sherlock is, for the hundredth or thousandth time, both amused and amazed at himself, marveling at how much he’s changed, how his language and behaviour shift when they’re having sex, his words shamelessly vulgar and lewd, his enunciation growing slangy and lazy.

It’s largely John’s influence, of course. As the only person Sherlock has ever and will ever have sex with, his verbal patterns and habits have shaped his responses greatly, and John absolutely loves dirty talk, the filthier the better. What surprises Sherlock sometimes, even after their years together, is how much he enjoys it as well. It’s not a put on, it’s not an act. It’s just a different side of his nature, something easy and free that John brings out in him.

The him of five years ago would have been absolutely beyond horrified at his behaviour.

The Sherlock of today, however, likes who he is and what he says and what he does. He likes it quite a lot.

He laughs a little, amused at himself.

“Blame it entirely on my husband,” Sherlock says, demanding fingers tugging on the hem of John’s jumper. “I was as pure as the driven snow before I met him.”

John gets the hint, and with Sherlock’s assistance pulls his jumper and vest up and over his head in one only-slightly-awkward motion. Sherlock runs his hands over John’s torso, over the tangled scars of his shoulder, over his well-muscled biceps.

“Were you now,” John murmurs archly, brow quirked in amusement. “Turned you out, did he?”

“He did,” Sherlock says. “Introduced me to the baser pleasures of the flesh.”

“And look at you now,” John says. “Absolutely gagging for it.”

“Constantly,” Sherlock replies, restless fingers running across John’s shoulders. “Can’t get enough.”

John laughs, low and rich. “I can see that.” He slides his hands around to the front of Sherlock’s torso, circling his nipples with his thumbs, making Sherlock gasp and push himself harder against the hard ridge of John in his jeans. 

“Look at the way you’re dying to fuck me right now,” John murmurs. “You’re such a slut for it, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Sherlock replies, the words caught in between breathy gasps. John’s eyes are on him, watching him intently, cataloguing every shiver and sigh as his thumbs mercilessly tease him, making the hard nubs of flesh ache and throb. “He ruined me completely.”

“What were you like before you were ruined, I wonder?” John murmurs.

“Repressed,” Sherlock admits. “In denial, and -- _ohhh_ \-- very much in need of a good hard shag.”

This makes John laugh again, even as his thumbs still work Sherlock’s nipples, relentless.

“Damn good thing you found one,” he says.

“Mmmmm,” Sherlock breathes, rolling his hips against John’s in familiar rhythm, giving up on words, losing the thread of conversation as his higher brain functions give away. 

Their teasing banter is one of the little power games they play, a test of wills, a test of who can stay in control and who yields, and Sherlock is happy to surrender, to let John win as he loses himself to the rising tide of pure sensation. He shrugs his shoulders out his dressing gown, letting the blue fabric pool around their hips. He braces his hand against the wall behind the sofa as John teases his nipples, sending ripples of breathless pleasure down Sherlock’s spine, making him gasp and arch.

“God, you’re so sensitive,” John murmurs, ever gracious in victory. “Gorgeous man. Tell me what you need.”

“Suck on them,” Sherlock rasps. 

“Oh, _yeah_ ,” John says softly, clearly enraptured by Sherlock’s bold neediness. He slides down just a bit on the sofa. Their height difference makes it easy for him to close his lips around Sherlock’s right nipple, pulling it into his mouth and suckling hard, tongue laving rough and wet at the tip. John is devoted and attentive, alternating between sucking hard and licking with a soft, pointed tongue as Sherlock writhes and whimpers above him, pushing himself down, seeking instinctive contact, thrusting his achingly hard cock and full, tender bollocks into John’s crotch as John meets his every thrust.

Time itself softens, grows indistinct; it’s a a minute or an age later when John releases his nipple, kisses his sternum before moving his attentions to his other side. “You’re so fucking hot,” he says, as his tongue lavishes equal attention to his left nipple. His hands move from Sherlock’s back to the belt of his dressing gown, fingers scrabbling at the loose double knot. “Get this off, I want to see all of you.”

“Hold on,” Sherlock says, practical matters briefly asserting themselves. “I brought --” He reaches into the pocket, pulls out the bottle of lube. He tugs his dressing gown free from their legs and drops it carelessly on the floor, presses the bottle into John’s hands.

John chuckles softly. “Jesus. I love when you want it this bad.”

Sherlock dips his head to kiss him. “I _always_ want it this bad,” Sherlock growls against his mouth, heedless of the terrible grammar. “Now slick me up, get me wet so I can fuck you.”

John makes a tiny sound in his throat at Sherlock’s filthy words as he obeys, reaching his hands behind Sherlock’s waist, expertly flicking the cap open one-handed and squirting the lube onto his fingers.

“Close the cap,” Sherlock reminds him. They’ve had to flip more than one sofa cushion due to a forgotten bottle and a slick silicone mess that refused to wash out. 

John nods, closes the cap and sets the bottle on the end table. He curls his right hand around Sherlock’s neck as he kisses him, his tongue slipping into Sherlock’s mouth hot and seeking as he slides the slicked fingers of his left hand into Sherlock’s cleft, finding his entrance with the unerring precision borne of long familiarity. Sherlock breaks the kiss with a sharp gasp as John slips two fingers in him without preamble, not hard but not quite gentle, either.

“That’s good, huh?” John rasps. He slides out most of the way before pushing in deeper, twisting his fingers ever so slightly to brush past Sherlock’s prostate. 

Sherlock nods, not quite able to form words as the sensations of heat and tightness and almost-pleasure flood his body. He clutches at John, gasping for breath as John works him open. 

John’s mouth returns to his nipple, rougher now, just shy of pain, pulling with his teeth before releasing it, soothing the nip with wet cooling swipes of his tongue. John pushes his fingers in deeper, as deep as he can reach, making Sherlock tense and cry out softly.

“Am I hurting you?” John asks against the sweat-damp skin of his torso. He’s not quite solicitous, something just a shade darker coloring his words.

“Little bit,” Sherlock breathes, in between moans. “ _Don’t stop_.”

John pulls him down for a rough, wet kiss, their mouths smearing messily against each other as he pulls his fingers out of Sherlock’s arse, adds a thirds and slides back into him, swallowing down Sherlock’s choked noises of pain-pleasure.

“Yeah, that’s how you like it,” John breathes against his kiss-chapped lips. “Bounce for me, sweetheart. Open yourself up on my fingers, you greedy thing.”

Sherlock nods and obeys, using his thigh muscles to move, writhing shamelessly as fucks himself on John’s fingers, the stretch and fullness still tinged with pain but rapidly melting into hot, aching pleasure.

John breaks the kiss, pulls back slightly to look at him, eyes hooded with lust as he watches Sherlock’s wanton display. He smiles, dark and delicious.

“You want something else, don’t you?”

“Yes, God, _yes_.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“I want -- “ Sherlock exhales, shuddering with need and pleasure. “I want your cock. Oh, God. John. I want your cock.”

“Oh yeah?” John murmurs. “You like my cock, don’t you?”

“I love it.” Sherlock says, wrecked and needy. “You know I love it. ” His shaking fingers find John’s belt, unbuckle it, open the fly of his jeans. “It’s so hard and thick and good and I want it.” 

“It’s always yours,” John murmurs. He slides his fingers out of Sherlock’s arse. “Just shift up a bit so I can--” 

Sherlock raises himself up, thighs quivering, and John unzips, shoves his jeans and pants down just enough to free his cock. It springs straight up, foreskin fully retracted dark pink and beautifully thick, the tip already shiny wet.

John really does have a remarkably gorgeous cock. Sherlock can’t help himself; he reaches for it, wraps his hand around the shaft, savouring the hot satiny feel in his hand. John groans, pushes himself against Sherlock’s grip.

“Oh,” Sherlock sighs. “I _want_ it.”

John’s already reaching for the lube, pouring a slightly overgenerous handful to slick himself. Sherlock shifts, spreading his knees a bit wider. John reaches around Sherlock’s thigh, taking himself in hand, positioning himself at his wet, loosened entrance.

“Then take it,” John says. “Show me how well you take it, beautiful.”

Sherlock holds on to John’s shoulders and lowers himself slowly, feeling the broad head of John’s cock against his opening. John guides himself in with the ease of long practice. The sensation inside of him is so familiar but still somehow singular and new every time, making Sherlock arch and gasp.

John groans. “Oh, yeah, just like that. Just like --”

Sherlock is able to take John entirely with relative ease, needing only a few slight pauses along the way in order to accommodate the fullness and stretch of him. He settles himself fully onto John’s thighs, savouring the fullness, a feeling of deep, primal satisfaction. A burst of tender affection washes over him. He brushes a stray bit of fringe from his John’s forehead with gentle fingers.

“You feel so good,” Sherlock murmurs, simple but utterly heartfelt.

“So do you,” John says, as his hands tighten on Sherlock’s hips. He sighs. “You always feel so good.”

“You ready for me?” Sherlock asks.

John nods. “Yeah. Fuck yourself on me, baby. Show me how good I make you feel.”

And Sherlock does, slowly at first, using his thighs to move as John stays still underneath him, hands tight and strong on his hips, holding Sherlock steady as he finds the angle and rhythm he desires. He speeds up a little, bouncing himself shamelessly up and down on his husband’s lovely thick cock, the upward curve of it a delicious steady friction across his prostate which each thrust.

“I love doing it like this,” Sherlock says, low and raspy. “It feels so good this way.”

“I love watching you,” John tells him. “I love the way you look with me inside of you, you’re so fucking gorgeous like this, getting yourself off on me --”

They go silent, words fading away as instinct takes over; they move together, the slap and slide of their bodies the only noise in the room save for the occasional moan or sigh. There’s no hurriedness, no urgency, no fear or worry or uncertainty, just the two of them, together, enjoying each other as time slows, stands still, the universe contracting to just the two of them joined like this, as close as human beings can be, making each other whole and complete.

“It’s so good,” Sherlock sighs, and it is. It’s hot and tight and slick and lovely and _right_ , and despite the utter physical and temporal impossibility he wishes --

“I want to fuck you like this forever,” he says, meaning it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” John says, bracing his feet against the floor and pushing upward to meet Sherlock’s thrusts, as if to prove the truth of his words.

“I know,” Sherlock says. “Neither am I.”

And Sherlock knows it’s the truth. They’re both here, with each other, for the rest of their lives.

No one is going anywhere, ever again. 

They don’t ever have to be uncertain about anything anymore.

He thinks, briefly, of the early days of their romantic relationship, that amazing terrifying uncertain time when their love was undeniable but their hearts battered, their frayed emotional connection just starting to heal. He remembers how every moment of intimacy was heavy with meaning, fraught with raw desire but also terror and vulnerability and uncertainty. Both of them had treated each shared sexual act like a precious, fragile treasure, something that could be smashed to bits at any moment. Every touch and sensation and murmured word had to be catalogued, stored and protected at all costs, hoarded in fear of the day when it would all crumble into dust and stored memories would be all there were left to soothe the emptiness they both believed was their inevitable due.

But then months passed, and then years.

And they didn’t crumble.

And with every cup of tea and shared toothbrush, with every moment of unspoken communication over the corpse of some poor murdered sod, every evening spent together absentmindedly watching crap telly -- hell, even with every shouting match that ended not with someone walking out the door but instead sheepishly coming back to bed, murmuring apologies in the dark with cool lips pressed against warm skin -- the truth of them had grown stronger, inch by inch, moment by moment, into something abiding and strong and unbreakable.

They healed fully, over time. They grew into each other, grew certain of each other. And with that growth came a freedom Sherlock never expected, freedom from the pressure to make every act of sexual intimacy something fraught with deep, dramatic meaning and desperate, sharp-edged longing.

They’re sure of each other, now. They’re settled. And as far as Sherlock is concerned, settled isn’t the least bit boring or stifling or constraining.

Settled is marvellous. Settled is _freeing_.

Settled means sometimes you make romantic love by candlelight, murmuring hushed words of endless devotion solely because you want to, because the moment feels right and good.

And sometimes, settled means you fuck on the sofa on a Saturday afternoon, straightforward and uncomplicated, no deep desperate romance necessary, just because fucking is fun.

And the best part is this: the uncomplicated sofa fuck isn’t in any way lesser for its straightforward simplicity. 

In the midst of a ordinary marital shag, Sherlock finds himself on the brink of an epiphany.

He sees how in some fundamental way, when it rests on a rock-solid foundation of trust and love, the ordinary is somehow so much _more_ , how free and lovely it is to indulge a bodily appetite for sex in as simple and straightforward manner as one would a plate of chips, or a hot bath, or a nap -- all the things he routinely partakes of now, without shame or apology, all the simple pleasures he denied himself for so many years before John Watson showed up and turned his entire sense of self inside out.

It’s all connected, somehow, and in this moment of heightened sensation, everything in him shivering and pulsing and surging, Sherlock feels like he can almost see the greater truth of it all, a transcendence almost within his mortal reach, a puzzle he’s on the very brink of solving--

John groans in pleasure beneath him and wraps his hot, sticky-slick fist around Sherlock’s cock, stroking him just how he likes, just this side of too rough, his thumb rubbing across the tip. The shivery-hot pleasure of it begins to wind up the base of Sherlock’s spine, insistent, undeniable.

Sherlock gazes down at his husband, pink and solid and sweaty and real beneath him, feels John’s palm rough against his most sensitive flesh in counterpoint to the solid and delicious slide of him inside his body, and Sherlock feels like he’s about to crack the code to the most fundamental truth of human existence.

 _I wasn’t me until I met you_ , he discovers, with a sudden burst of overwhelming gratitude and devotion.

Of course, saying that out loud would ruin the entire crystalline revelation of having an utterly perfect ordinary shag with his utterly perfect ordinary spouse, so he doesn’t.

“I’m gonna come on you,” is what he says instead, which is both truthful and much more in the spirit of the moment.

“Oh, God, yes,” John rasps. “Do it. Ride me, _use_ me while I watch you.”

Sherlock curves forward to kiss him once, hard, before leaning back and placing his hands behind himself on John’s knees, indulging his exhibitionistic streak by wantonly displaying himself for John’s pleasure. The shift in angle makes John’s cock push harder against his prostate, making him moan louder than maybe is strictly polite for this time of day. 

Sherlock doesn’t give a single damn. 

The twin pleasures of John’s cock and hand both working him in tandem is spiraling ever higher, his bollocks drawing up close to his body. He’s approaching the point of no return, he not going to last much longer and he doesn’t want to, this isn’t about drawing it out, it’s about taking his pleasure, indulging himself, allowing himself to -- 

“So gorgeous,” John breathes. “God, yes, just like that, so fucking hot, yeah, come on me, fucking shoot your load all over me --”

“Ohhhh,” Sherlock exhales, as the incomparable pleasure winds up in him. “I’m so close, I’m gonna, I’m gonna --” 

John presses his heels into the floor and thrusts up into him, hard, and he’s coming, crying out as his sharp and lovely orgasm races up into his spine and explodes into his brain, showers of pleasure throughout his body as he spurts out hot and wet over John’s hand and across his chest and neck.

“Oh, God oh God oh God,” Sherlock babbles, shaking and panting, as John takes over the rhythm and fucks him through it, knowing exactly how to handle his body, knowing exactly how to give him the most pleasure, how to make his climax deeper and longer and better. “Oh God, oh fuck oh fuck ohhh --”

As his orgasm surges and crests and ebbs John gentles his touch, carefully slowing his strokes, coaxing him through his last shivering aftershocks before releasing his spent cock. Eddies of pleasure still sing through Sherlock’s nerves, make John inside him still feel so good, so Sherlock regroups, refocuses his efforts, pistoning himself up and down until his thighs are shaking, wanting to make John feel as good as John makes him feel.

And Sherlock knows exactly what filthy things John likes best. He swipes the fingers of his right hand through the spattered trail of hot sticky fluid on John’s chest.

“Open your mouth,” he demands.

“Yeah,” John groans. “Give it to me, I want it--”

John opens his mouth, lets Sherlock feed him his come-covered fingers, closing his eyes as he greedily sucks them clean. The filthy intimacy of it overwhelms John and he comes, moaning around Sherlock’s fingers in his mouth, holding his hips down tight against his own as he shivers and spills, pusing heat deep inside Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock slides his fingers from John’s now-slack and panting mouth. He dips down to kiss him even as they are both gasping for breath, tasting himself on John’s tongue as their lips smear and slide together. John’s hands wrap around his waist, pulling him close, keeping them entangled for just a few moments more.

“God, I love you,” John says against his neck, still breathing hard.

Sherlock presses his lips to John’s hot, damp forehead, tasting the delicious musky salty tang of his sweat. 

“I love you too,” he says. He’s happy, he’s so damn happy, open and sated in this gorgeous unashamed moment, John’s softening cock still in his arse and beginning to sting but even that feels perfect in its pure human postcoital awkwardness.

 _I’m alive,_ he thinks, feeling something close to triumph. _I’m alive and I love someone and he loves me and I’m alive._

“You know what else I love?” John says.

Sherlock suddenly realises he’s absolutely fucking starving.

“I really hope you’re going to say chips,” Sherlock 

John pulls back just slightly in surprise. “I actually _was_ going to say chips. How did you know that?”

“Well, your stomach just rumbled, and I suppose you were also…” Sherlock shrugs. “Giving off all sorts of chip-desiring subtextual clues.”

“Or maybe we’re just on the same wavelength,” John says.

“Maybe we’re just on the same wavelength,” Sherlock agrees graciously. “Because I could murder a plate of chips and and some sausages right now.”

“There’s a new place that delivers,” John says. “Or, it’s only about -- scoot off me, my legs are falling asleep -- six blocks away, if you fancy going out.”

Just at that moment, John’s phone pings. 

The two of them disengage a bit messily as Sherlock clambers off John’s lap, collapsing into an inelegant sprawl of limbs on the sofa.

John checks his messages.

“Lestrade picked up Abraham Slaney, no problems.” John puts his phone aside. “Case wrapped up with a bow. We should go out and get lunch to celebrate.” 

“Delivery,” Sherlock replies. “I don’t feel like getting dressed.”

“They never get here hot,” John correctly points out. “And after you rode me like a rented birthday pony, the least you could do is take me out for lunch. You want the loo first?” 

Sherlock gallantly waves off the offer. “Go ahead. Whoever does the fingering gets the first wash. Marquess of Queensberry rules.”

“I somehow missed that section,” John replies.

“There was an addendum. Do be quick, though.”

“Back in a tick.” John rises, pulling up his jeans but leaving them unzipped. “Don’t you dare fall asleep while I’m gone.”

“I won’t. Not while I’m all…” Sherlock gestures vaguely at his own lower regions.

“Drippy and sticky?”

“Well... yes. Also hungry, so hurry up.”

“Demanding git,” John says, but it’s in the soft tones of an endearment. He starts to cross the room, heading towards the bathroom.

Out of the blue, Sherlock suddenly feels an urgent need he can't quite parse. He needs to tell John, somehow, tell him how much he -- 

“John.”

Something in his tone makes John stop, turn around.

“Yes?”

“I want to -- You should know that -- ” Sherlock shakes his head. What seemed so perfectly clear just a few moments before, when he was under the influence of a cascade of mind-scrambling sex chemicals, is now more complicated, and so much harder to explain.

“Thank you,” is what he finally says, sincere, a little overly formal. It’s not what he wants to say, but it will have to do.

John smiles, his brows drawing together just slightly. “For what, love?”

“For…” Sherlock shrugs, shakes his head at his own incoherent sentimentality. “I don’t know. For being here, I suppose.”

Something in John’s eyes just… _glows_.

“I promise you,” John says, “there is no place else on this Earth I’d rather be than right here.”

They smile at each other, a moment of improbably perfect harmony. They’re sure of each other, as certain and solid as the floor beneath their feet, and Sherlock loves John so much he almost can’t breathe.

John quirks an eyebrow and grins. “But I don’t literally mean here, in this flat. You’re still getting dressed and taking me out for chips, my dear.”

Sherlock sees the emotional out John’s offering, and takes it. “Uggggh,” he sighs. “ _Fine_. Consider it compensation for a job well done, I suppose.”

John grins. “It was a pretty great shag, wasn’t it?”

“Don’t get arrogant, John. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Don’t hear you disagreeing, though.”

Sherlock shrugs one shoulder, but he doesn’t bother to hide his smile.

“Take that as a yes,” John says, a bit of smugness in his tone as he leaves the room.

Sherlock watches him go down the hallway and slip into the loo.

He already misses him, which is just ridiculously needy but still the truth.

When Sherlock feels like this, open and happy and full of love, he hates it when John goes even fifteen feet away, just into the next room. 

But even when John leaves his side, he’s still here, and that’s what makes it all right. Sherlock knows he’s still here. He’s always right here, literally as well as figuratively, in Sherlock’s body and his mind and his heart, and he will be here until the day Sherlock dies.

John is with him, and he keeps Sherlock right, always.

Sherlock marvels at himself, at how he’s gone so soft and sentimental over the years.

He’s still brilliant, still sharp-edged in wits and more than occasionally in tongue, but he’s also embraced the banal and ordinary and utterly human, with the wisdom that comes with time and slowly encroaching midlife.

The truth is, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Sherlock is still smiling as he closes his eyes, telling himself not to fall asleep but knowing he will, for a minute. And John will come out and see Sherlock asleep and sigh, and Sherlock will wake up and John will say, “It’s all right, you need your rest.” And Sherlock will get up anyway, partly because he’s hungry and partly to keep his word, and they will go out for lunch. And Sherlock won’t order enough, and John will order too much, and they will end up sharing everything on the table equally.

They will have a good time, teasing and bantering and chatting, finishing each other’s sentences and laughing at shared punchlines of long-ago inside jokes as they linger over their meal.

It’s nothing at all, really. Nothing exciting or pulse-poundingly dangerous or especially mentally taxing, just two middle-aged married blokes, eating lunch together on a Saturday afternoon.

It’s just another day in their lives, utterly ordinary, nothing special in particular. But what Sherlock understands now is how happiness, when you really have it, sometimes looks like nothing in particular at all.

He’s drifting into sleep with these thoughts still meandering around his brain when his husband returns to the sitting room.

“Bloody hell,” John sighs. “I _knew_ it.”

Sherlock opens one eye and looks up at him. “No, I’m awake.”

“It’s all right,” John says. “You were up all night. You need your rest.”

“Not at all.” Sherlock sits up. “I distinctly remember you promised to take me out for chips.”

“Oh did I,” John says with a smile, affection dancing in his eyes.

“You certainly did,” Sherlock says as he rises. He can’t resist pressing in close to John, planting a brief kiss into soft hair. As if on instinct, John relaxes into him, presses his head into Sherlock’s bare chest. 

Neither one moves, both of them content to enjoy one more moment of closeness.

“I don’t require anything special in particular,” Sherlock tells him. “Just a plate of chips will do.”


End file.
